the last love # love poem #poetry

I eat macaroons in the same coffee shop
Roberto’s guitar sells cheap dreams by the sea
young girls are ready for harvest like flowers of lust
I laugh…
I scratch poetry on a glass
I say the first love is French
you ask how’s the last
it smells raspberries, vanilla, and grass
you touch my left wrist
I play a few cards
red flowers bloom on your cheeks
your teeth peel the skin of my gloves
you walk into darkness
I seal you in wax
how’s the last love?
pray..
you shouldn’t have asked

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

 

My Author of the Year Interview with Spillwords Press #author

My Dear Readers,

I am humbled that I was voted Author of the Year at Spillwords Press.  Thank you to everyone who voted for me, and thank you to the wonderful team at Spillwords Press (NYC).

“…from the writings of the titans coming from the Latin American space to the writings of their counterparts coming from the Slavic space. Yes, I am an American, but I am also a child of Europe. I have been fascinated, mesmerized, frightened, brought to tears…” 

You can read my interview here: Author of the Year 2019 Interview 

Yours,

Gabriela

 

 

and…love… #love poem #poetry

and…
this night is jasmine and is sand
the trees are fingers with no end
the earth has eyes
the tears have thighs

you…
you are the voice of lonely heights
I am the day without sights
a leaf is falling on my hips
into the air a form of lips

and…
your touches hide in poetry
a flower faints with jealousy
your dreams taste like forbidden fruits
the sea grows almonds and grows roots

yet…
the story didn’t write its end
my eyes and yours are a blend
and…
love…

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: Vaclav Taus; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Love in Venice #short prose #flash fiction

“Would you like to remain in Venice forever?”

I bite my lips.

“Oh, no, but I would love to live here for an entire winter.”

“And what would you do?”

“Every night I will walk in Piazza San Marco, at that moment when the silence becomes so permeable that my steps can be heard from the moon. In the heated, mysterious, thrilling nights of the carnival I will change mask after mask, dress after dress, smile after smile, pain after pain, lover after lover. Every morning I will mix essences of perfumes, seeking for the very one that can revive the mystique of my body, intoxicate my soul, empower my mind. Every twilight I will dive in the coolness of the Adriatic Sea; my body shivering, my soul revived; my memory of him forever gone. In the night I will go to consult astrologer after astrologer in the less known quarters of the city.”

I stop.

The sound of a church bell tears apart the moist air.

He looks at me: blue eyes, dark hair; powerful voice.

“Tonight there is party at the Doge’s Palace. Would you like to come with me?”

“I am not going to parties anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I died long time ago, by mistake. Now I am just a Venetian mask.”

For a moment he looks flabbergasted.
….

excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers 
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: Mohammadreza Zeidabadi; Shutterstock; [link]

 

the train to Vienna #love poem #poetry

let’s take the train and go to Vienna
rent a room for a night and then waltz
in your arms the waist of the night trembles
fingertips touch a blue door which is locked
I sit barefoot on the floor
the windows’ eyelashes are yellow and drunk
your voice moves stones in a lonely graveyard
to bury the tears I cry
and lonely like children of war
we cut in two the same pain for one night
you, the kiss of the love that could be
I, the rhythm of three beats in each bar
in Prater Park they sell lollipops
years pass by in one night
I rest my head on your shoulder
and the train to Vienna has stopped

draft
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: KimSongsak; Shutterstock; [link]

 

I want my body burned on pyre #poem #poetry

I want my body burned on pyre
a Viking boat will take me far on the cold sea
I want to leave my grave goods for the poor
take the pain which branded their souls
into a bursting aurora borealis fire
I want to feel the sobs of the North Pole

I want to burn inside the rhythms of the flamenco
drown in the dancers’ passion in the streets of old Córdoba
I want to entertain rich masters for a piece of bread
inside the silent cries of those who are misunderstood
I want the desperation of the dancers dressed in red

and you, the one who always claimed to know
what powers lie inside the jungle of my soul
……

fragment from the poem “I want my body burned on pyre”- draft
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image:  DarkGeometryStudios; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Lonely Saturdays #poem #prosepoem #poetry

The ankle of an iceberg cries. Its tears fell on my body.
They crust on my skin like cold wax on a rack of votive candles.
Seconds hurt like lonely Saturdays.
I lie in bed.
Roses scent the air.
My dreams burn. Ashes of our nights of love cover the sun.
My eyes dilate under the gravity of time.
I taste figs and wild forest.
The room moves on another longitude.
Is it morning?
Is it Saturday?
Where are you?

related: Sunday on another latitude

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: bruniewska; Shutterstock; [link]